The Begining
by Zaknifa.50
Summary: On the far Eastern fringes of The Empire they have but one fear, Ogres. And to the dismay and horror of the men serving in the Eastern units the Great Migration of the Ogre Kingdoms has begun. One Shot


The Great Migration

The last three days were nothing more than wind, mud, and snow and yet it is as if Sigmar wishes to punish me more. I sat there in the mud feeling it seep into my already soaking pants past saturation, which I had previously thought impossible. Already the freezing water was burning new sections of my already frost bitten thighs and feet with a white hot cold that could only be compared to that of an inquisitor's branding iron.

While the wind blowing down from the eastern mountains did little to distract me from the fact that there was a rat nibbling on my big toe, it did succeed in biting through any clothing we had been given. Even the winter clothes which had been 'generously' been donated by the church had already left my fingers black and dead. I was almost unable to grip my already rusted and rotted hand cannon. I am not even sure if the thing can fire anymore without leaving my head as a chucked pig's skill to be picked slowly by wild beast or comrades. But what more did criminals deserve, right?

'Why am I here?' was the only thought that ran through my mind. Not, 'How should I get more food?' or 'When are the Greenskins going to try to kill me again?' or even 'Did that rat find my charcoal toe tasty?' No, I had already come to the conclusion that I would die in these rat-infested and diseased-ridden trench fortifications, outside of comfort and warmth, away from food and love. I would die very alone and rather hungry. Now that I think of it, when was my last meal?

I raise my head and feel the wind slash at my now exposed throat. I see the little bastard; nibbling, sampling, savouring my toe nail. Like a little merchant tasting a new vintage of wine or squeezing fruit that is long out of season. He savours every immoral bite and proceeds to lick his fingers with great relish. He is a fat little bastard, nice and plump. Even a rat that lives in the icy water filled trenches had better lives than the children of Sigmar. The rat probably even has a warm little hole to curl up in, its stomach full of withered black toe. Maybe even a little doe to pleasure himself with. A strong breeze rips through the mud hole that I call home. I put my head down again to offer some protection from the cold.

The wind slowly dies away again and I raise my head to look for my little connoisseur to find him gone and the puddle he was in rippling slightly. I shrug not thinking much of it. Then I notice the ripples growing larger and more frequent. My mind begins to race to the Greenskins again, but there was no warning horn so they must still be coming down from the mountains. As I continue to think of what new horrors that the Orcs have brought with to mutilate my comrades with, a cacophony of noise breaks my train of thought as unfamiliar sounds rip through my ears, yelling and shouting to a chant that was unfamiliar to me.

Then the horns pierced the cold winter air with the shrieks of warning to the poor souls trapped within the trenches. I tried my best to rise to my feet as fast as I could, but my frost bitten limbs would only slow me down as I stood. I peered slowly over the top of the trench expecting to see a tide of green to overrun me and trample me into the icy mud. But instead of the green abominations charging and waving crude hatchets and throwing cruder curses, I saw something not even those green savages could prepare me for.

They were barrelling down at me, almost as fast as horses, their large earth colour bodies were covered in a dark red war paint depicting acts of aggression, violence and strength. Their large bellies were swathed in thick sheets of scrap metal brutally merged together, the metal itself unwillingly coaxed by unskilled hands. The armour bore livid visage of a gaping maw onto their stomach. Each one of the monstrosities was swinging improbably sized clubs the size of men with such ease that it wasn't until I had began to run later on that I noticed the shameful weight in my pants from what I saw over that frozen dirt.

As the monstrous beasts drew closer I realised that everyone was doomed if we did not run. Almost as if my companions and I were thinking as one, we all broke and ran to escape the long grave. Terror eclipses the pain from the frostbite as I scrambled up the back side of the trench, ripping and tearing both fingernail and flesh on the frozen earth as I stumbled out of my coffin and into the frozen night. I glanced back to see how close my demise was, and I saw them not ten feet where I was sitting. I looked down and saw that I was one of the first clamber out of that pit.

Not even my numbed limbs would slow me down as adrenaline began to replace the searing cold with a panic that drove my body. Quickly I left the line behind me, my footfalls and breathing quickly drowned out by the screams of my friends and the beasts. The sound of butchery and feasting fell upon my ears. Ran harder towards the fort but I could not out run the hell that was thrown upon my former friends.

I was within shouting distance of the fortress all hope then collapsed with the walls of the fort themselves. Large, misshapen bolts and crude cannonballs rained down upon the stone barricades and like paper before a fist, they were torn open and revealed to underbelly of structure. Immediately I heard the calls of panic and despairfrom within the trenches, while whatever demon lead those brutes bellowed above all the chaos, rallying his troops into another charge with threats and promises.

I turned my back to the crumbling wall, soon to be brimming with the dead. My last hope gone, I looked upon the face of my end. I had not heard them coming from behind, but I was already face to face with one of the larger horrors. He was hefting a large wooden club that required both of his meaty hands to bring to bear. His rusted armour had the marks of a dozen different people, all of whom had passed his cracked teeth at one moment or another.

I drew my pathetically meagre blade and prepared to die as respectfully as possible. The low, throaty, inhuman chuckle that came from his twisted and blood splattered lips and jowls. Jest grated on my soul and I flinched, dropping my weapon. He brought his club in a quick horizontal sweep.

It was not skill or speed that saved me, but simple fear and exhaustion caused my legs to buckled under me. The club to pass harmlessly over my head. As I collapsed, I felt the powerful wind that followed the unchallenged wing blast across my face. I hit the frozen ground hard, bruising bone, but it would not matter soon. I lay on my back looking up to the monster, like a frightened child towards a furious father. He let the club fall to the ground and extended a giant mitt, wrapping it around the front of my shirt.

He brought me close to his face and then I knew what true fear was. The bulbous eyes, greasy beard, and tombstone teeth all greeted me with vision of painful dismemberment or slow agony. He licked his lips and began to open his mouth wide while he drew my head in closer. The rancid breath washed over me, hot moisture clinging to my face. My last sight was that of the greeting maw, and thinking that at least I would die warm.


End file.
